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Geoffrey was decidedly not his uncle. Joseph Rofal understood that killing his employees for failure served no purpose. Geoffrey did not. Or perhaps he did and just didn’t care, because simply fleeing was also out of the question. Two men tried to leave the city the other day. Geoffrey had their heads in his office now.

The search for Colt had not been much better. Of the three men that Swank sent to retrieve Colt’s personnel file from the police station, only one returned, delivering a message to stop looking for the man. Geoffrey killed the poor bastard anyway.

He had no idea what to do at this point. The Rofal empire was a sinking ship, and its new captain didn’t give a shit, because he was a fucking shark.

Swank left the girl’s body where it was. He pulled his coat’s collar up around his neck and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked. He had been on his way to a bar, and now, the idea of getting hammered out of his mind seemed even more appealing. It wouldn’t do much to settle his stomach, but that wasn’t really the point, anyway. He turned into his usual place, the neon green sign reading Bart’s Bar. It was an armpit of an establishment, but he had yet to find a place with cheaper booze. He took the first seat he saw and petitioned the bartender for a bottle of vodka.

Not long into his drink, however, a man on the other side of the room got up and ventured over. “Are you Swank?”

Swank nearly told him to fuck off, but after reflecting for a moment on his recent string of luck, he decided he’d try not to piss off a total stranger. “Yeah. Who are you?”